


Tabula Rasa

by kim47



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, John Watson's Blog, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-13
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:01:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kim47/pseuds/kim47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the <span class="ljuser ljuser-name_comment_fic"></span><a href="http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://comment-fic.livejournal.com/"><b>comment_fic</b></a> prompt: John (+/ Sherlock), a blogger is lost without his subject.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tabula Rasa

**Author's Note:**

> _Tabula Rasa_ is a Latin phrase meaning 'blank slate'. It's an epistemological theory, which is where I picked it up, but that has nothing to do with this. I just like the phrase.

  


He tries, after, to keep writing.

*

He manages one sentence before abandoning his old blog.

_He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him._

John stares at the cursor for what feels like hours, at the blank space stretching down the page, but there's nothing else to say.

*

He starts a new blog. It's anonymous, doesn't have his name anywhere on it. He gives Ella the address, and Harry. No one asks him about his old site and he doesn't offer the address of the new one. Ella tells him, again, that it will be good for him. Good to keep a record of what he's doing and who he's seeing, to be engaged with his life.

John doesn't believe her.

*

But he tries, he really does. For Harry's sake, and Mrs Hudson, and Ella, all people who are worried about him, who care. But without Sherlock to write about, he doesn't have anything to say. His mouth twists as her remembers Sherlock's words. _You may never be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you are_ unbeatable _._

It's more true than he realised.

*

He writes every fortnight or so, never more than a few sentences. _Had a drink with Mike. Just had work today, nothing exciting. Tea with Harry, we saw a film afterwards._

But after a few months, he can't be bothered with it any more. He forgets, for weeks at a time, that he has a blog at all. His life is...dull. It's not bad, exactly. He doesn't complain. He has a good job. A nice, if small, flat (it's clean too, which is something of a novelty). He sees his sister once a month, and occasionally lets his work colleagues drag him out for drinks. He has a routine, and he likes that. It's ordered. He's even thinking of getting a dog.

As long as he doesn't let himself think too hard, doesn't let his mind stray down the paths they so naturally incline to, ignores the twist in his gut when he sees a man in a long coat or hears the strains of a street busker's violin, he's happy.

Well, he's content, and he figures that's close enough.

*

**December 15 2012**

Nothing happens to me.

*

The next time he writes a blog post, it's even shorter, but given that he as he makes it, a short-haired, tan-skinned Sherlock is kissing down his neck and muttering for him to "put that bloody thing away, I'm ready for round two now", he thinks that's excusable.

*

**July 3rd 2014**

He's back.


End file.
